To whom it may concern:

I regret to inform you that I will be retiring from the business to pursue other endeavors. Please take my sincere apoligies about the short notice. My retirement is effective as of now.

Be careful, all, as there are not many of the great ones left here. I will be keeping my eye on the goings on and will make a return if needed. Send me letters, if you can find me, and ever need my help.

The following people, if killed, shall cause my violent retribution on the head of whomever is in the wrong:
Oriana Lark
Tsuko Theras
Penril Tanith
Jenin, heir of House Marlas
Iffalna Briarose

Please respect my wishes. I will many of you at the wedding.

Luck to you all,
Blyth

((This letter has been sent to: Altariel Katrei, Iffalna Briarose, Penril Tanith, Raid A'rundhati, Ruuval Kriest, Sevejar Locke, Silva Lothair, Tsuko Theras, Valandil Shadowdeath, Vale Se'Drav, and all other important spies, theives, and assassins that would need to recieve it.(providing for the future of course)))

The reply, scribbled on the back of a data sheet detailing the pest-resistence of a type of squash, and slipped under Blyth's door:

You young idiot, for goodness' sake, I don't need you to look after me! I haven't gotten this old by being stupid, you know, and I've faced a fair number of trials in my life that should PROVE to younglings like yourself that I don't need anyone's protection! I'm sure you're trying to be nice and I appreciate that you're cutting your ties with your...former life, shall I say?...but don't you even think of coddling me or you will suffer the consequences, young man!

Now stop wasting your time writing letters and get your prissy young clothes-hoarding self to training YESTERDAY! We have work to do!

...And return this sheet to me, would you? I have the data in the greenhouse, but I don't want to copy it again.

The fact that there was some sort of letter literally stabbed on his door did not really unnerve Sevejar Locke; he had many unwanted visitors the last few weeks, most of them being drunk men and women who had either been lead there by himself or had followed him. Little did it matter, since Poena and Tuska were more than happy to get rid of the various visitors that just did not want to leave at peace. Sevejar sighed as he pulled his swords off their scabbards. The messenger of the viciously stabbed letter could still be around, and Sevejar would rather that he was not caught flat-footed. At least, not by a random fool who had heard of the silver haired assassin’s accomplishments.

Standing on attention, Sevejar took a cautious step forward, his feet crashing the dry leaves fallen around his yard by the surrounding trees. He was moving in too slow a pace, he knew; such paces were what made crossbow bolts stick in the back of your head before you even realized that someone was watching you. With a grit of his teeth, Locke banished such morbid thoughts to his subconscious and moved forward, his swords readied to exterminate anyone who fell on his path. “One, two, Sevejar's coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door…” The chant was sung quietly as the assassin walked slowly towards his home cottage.

He crossed ten more feet and, his patience finally snapping, he sheathed Tuska into its rightful place and walked with steel determination to the door, where the letter awaited. With a swift move, the seal made of wax was broken and the scroll snapped open.

It read of retirement and marriage. “What in the Nine Hells?” Sevejar cursed, before scrolling down on the parchment with his eyes. Names. Five of them. No, six. The letter was addressed to him by a man he did not know, a certain someone who the assassin had never heard about. Someone named Blyth. “Respect your wishes? Why should I do that, you bloody idiot? Because you have sent me a letter?” The assassin yelled his words in frustration, in case the person who delivered the letter was still around. “You haven’t even written a price, yet you expect me to just not kill the fools you mention?”

He crashed the letter with satisfaction, before tossing it on the floor and stomping on it. With the rain that was approaching slowly but steady, the remains of the ordeal would be lost; not that Sevejar wanted it otherwise. He barged in his house, commenced a search in case his paranoia was right, and packed traveling supplies. He and this “Blyth” person were going to trade words; specifically, Sevejar was planning on giving Poena – Pain – and Tuska – Agony – and on taking spleen and heart.

Stupid Olencians. Damn their arrogance and politics of the knife.

The letter came in at noon, while Silva was busy reading a book in his study. A knock alerted the blonde to the presence of a servant, who came in after he called for the messenger to come in. It was a short letter, so Silva read it immediately.

The High Seat's brows rose at the list of names, wondering who under the Suns would send him such a letter. Most of the names were unfamiliar, and he had no interest in the House of Marlas; he didn't even consider it a threat to his rise to the throne--yet. He skipped the rest of the letter and read the name at the very bottom. It was foreign as well.

After folding the note neatly, he tossed into a trash bin at the corner of the room before returning to his book.